hands mine. Now, able to write freely,
well as live. Time left in poetry prison.. less
than 26 hours. Would love to write with sentence,
paragraph, like my usual diarist standing. But, I want
to follow through. Need another
For propulsion. Want 2B antagonized, rushed.. motivated.
That keeps writers HONEST.
What should my next test be? Have to think. Need book,
maximand, before week’s end.
Rain, finally back. But I’m tired. Waking early
for work, as always. SO I can’t immerse fully in this
PM session. No TV.. real writer moment. One more
glass. Hear the Cab talking. Merlot, too.. Franc.
Stark Autonomy, on parallel street. Teases–
On holiday. Soon. With her. And me?
With notebook. Logging each pitch in those wave-shore
meetings. She provides a map, in her entries. Why
DON’T I make time for her? Those pages? Am i
ill? So immediate. And still i stall. Even this moderate
fall mocks my stride. Could have another glass, but 4 1nce,
I need to illustrate a bit of discipline.. restraint, stance, presence.
I follow her. But not what “follow” means today.
She’s above Now. She’s eonian; geographic,
meteorological. And me, I’m me. Scribbling.
4 my Life. Center sabotaged. Sirens toward
a writer’s cover.. his canonized lover. At 103. Fevered incident.